by Etta Faire
I hugged my arms tightly around my chest and ignored the fact the only other women in the room were flopping and wiggling around poles totally nude. I marched over to Destiny, fully thinking she'd back up and shy away. She didn't. She sashay-danced over to me like I was an expected part of the show. I could feel the other patrons' eyes on me now. They were all staring like I might rip my clothes off and dance with the women on stage. I didn't look at them. I kept my eyes on the naked woman in front of me, just like what was proper under the circumstances.
Somehow I lifted a shaky hand and tossed the mostly crumpled paper at the floor by Destiny's feet. Then, I turned and speed-walked up the aisle, mumbling a few "Sorry’s" to the disappointed patrons, instantly kicking myself for caring about disappointing a room full of perverted Jacksons.
I couldn't get to my car fast enough.
A little after 8:00, she finally texted. "I have a break in ten. Have my drink ready."
I did. She came out the back door wearing a bright pink robe and flip flops. Even though she was in her mid-twenties now, she still had the round soft face of a teenager. I could see why men preferred this look. It was almost a cartoon version of what most women looked like. Long fake eyelashes and tons of eyeliner, thick pouty, glossed-up lips. And did this woman even have pores?
She grabbed the plastic cup and took a sip. "Needs ice," she said in a high-pitched, breathy voice.
"Sorry. I honestly forgot that part. Next time." Like we had scads of next-times ahead of us, bonding in the alley of her strip club, drinking from my Civic.
The sun was already setting, and I had to get back to the house soon. "Sorry I threw the paper at you. I tried to get the bouncer to give you the note."
"Jimbo?" She said. "He takes his security job seriously since the... you know."
"Since the murders? He does a good job."
"He's all right. At least he's normal, not like the creepy guy they got workin' the other times." Destiny took a longer sip this time then leaned against the trunk of my car. "So, I saw the news. Jackson was a murderer."
"That's what they're thinking," I said.
"I'm surprised you wanted to meet with me," she said. "But I guess we both got screwed by that guy. I got screwed out of a pretty significant chunk of change, though."
It was a loaded response. The hatred between us seemed to grow thicker the more we pretended it wasn't there. I didn't want to talk about the house or the inheritance, so I tried to move on.
"But," I said. "We're lucky to be alive. Cheers." I held up my cup that really only had Pepsi in it. She hit her plastic one against mine.
"Those last two girls worked here," she said.
"Did you know them?"
She shook her head. “Not really. Jackson and I had a private dance once with a couple of the girls. But I wasn’t working here at the time. I quit dancing when I married Jackson. The liar told me I'd never have to work again. Except, here I am."
"I saw the inside of this club. You make good money. Better than I'm making. The inheritance I got is in a trust until Rex dies.”
She laughed into her cup. "Figures."
I told her about how I couldn't change a thing in the house or sell it until the dog passed away, and that I was given a stipend that barely paid for electricity. That seemed to make her smile.
I went on. "I should've known there'd be a screw-you catch involved. My pre-nup was six-inches thick. I'm not sure what made me think the inheritance would be any different."
"Yep, a meeting with Jackson's lawyer is one you'll never benefit from. Ronald, the awful little man with the handle-bar mustache who wants you to hurry up and sign so you won't actually read anything in the contract."
We both laughed, and I was almost caught off guard by how funny and smart she was. I was grilling her for information, but it did feel good to have someone to talk to about Jackson and the oddities of Gate House.
I tried to regain my focus. "Jackson told me he changed his will because he thought someone was trying to kill him. Did he ever mention that to you?"
Her mouth dropped. "What do you mean Jackson told you? When did you talk to him?" She held her cup out for me to fill up again.
The smell of booze mixed with old trash filled the air around the backdoor of the strip club. I fumbled with my words and thoughts as I hit the key fob and opened my hatch again. "He wrote a note that was included in the inheritance." Thankfully, I was a pretty fast liar. "The note said something about a poisoning and a hospital."
I grabbed the Captain Morgans and filled her cup up again.
"Just so you know, Jackson was going a little crazy there toward the end, I hate to admit. I hear it runs in some families. I don't know anything about an attempted murder, though." She took another sip, looking up at the pinkish-yellow streaks across the sky. "But I do remember one time I had to pick him up at the hospital after he had too much to drink. It was poisoning, all right. Alcohol poisoning. I'm thinking about writing one of those tell-all books about being married to a delusional, crazy, drunken murderer. Maybe Jackson can help me quit dancing after all."
Damn it. I should've thought of that one first. I was the writer.
"Did he ever tell you someone cut his brakes?"
"This sounds a lot like an interrogation," she said. "I honestly don't remember if he did. Why?" I felt every dagger pointing from her eyes.
"No reason. I still can't believe he might've killed those women. I never saw any signs of instability. I mean, aside from his drinking and womanizing."
"Those are not signs of instability or potential murdering.” She motioned toward the club beside us. “Or that whole place would be full of killers. It's actually therapy for a lot of these guys. Wives don’t understand them, pressures building,” she said, looking at the backdoor. "I've gotta get back."
I poured the rest of my Pepsi out, watching it fall over the tufts of grass poking up from the concrete. Something small scurried behind the building, and I jumped, suddenly very aware I was standing in a dark alley... with a stripper in a robe, pouring drinks from my trunk while a murderer might still be on the loose.
She chugged the last bit of her drink and tossed her cup into the back of my car like it was a traveling dumpster. "Can't say it was nice. But, thanks for the drinks." She walked away then turned back. "Don't contact me anymore. You won. Enjoy your inheritance. And your murder house. Game over."
Chapter 12
So, You Did Know Those Strippers
I couldn't wait to confront Jackson that night, if he had the nerve to 'manifest himself'. He did. I was putting away the dishes (just after 10:00, I'd missed the house agreement again, damn it) when I realized he was next to me, staring at me in the same way he used to back when we were first dating. I thought it was endearing back then, before I knew the difference between endearing and creepy.
"You know," he said, when I spotted him. "I'm not going to age anymore. So we can be together for more than 20 years before you're older than me. And I'll try not to let your age bother me after that, so long as you don't lose your looks too much."
I walked right through him to get to the cabinet with the plates. A rush of cold caught me by surprise, along with the smell of peonies. "What the... did you just bring me flowers?"
"They're your favorite. I bet Brock doesn't know that."
"Who cares."
"Here's another one of your favorites."
I tried not to notice, but I couldn't help it. The smell took over the whole kitchen. "Pancakes," I said, nodding, my stomach growling even though I wasn't hungry and the smell was fake.
"Just how you like them, undercooked and drenched in that sickeningly sweet imitation maple syrup. I never understood why you liked that one, honestly. I also remember you cry during the end of every Harry Potter movie. You say you don't want kids but you have a notebook full of baby names and room ideas..."
"Okay, stop it," I said, holding in a smile. "It's borderline stalky and creepy, and nobody cares." I pou
red myself a nice large rum and coke with ice, and took it to the living room.
I had the TV on, and the Landover murders were all over the news again today. I could hear the reporter going on and on about the bones discovered in the backyard of the local dead professor's house, and how he apparently had a love for all things lewd. "The remains have not yet been identified as those of Candace Newman and Heather Telamario..."
"I talked to Destiny today," I said as I sat down on the couch. "She had a lot of interesting things to say about you. For one, she thinks you killed those women. She's going to write a book about it."
"Aww, it's charming how she still can't get enough of me. A little stalky and creepy, though." He sat down on the settee, stretching out.
"I asked her about the poisoning incident you're so convinced proves you were murdered. She said it was alcohol poisoning."
"A murderer would say that."
“And she says you two had a private session with the murdered women.”
The camera angles focusing on my house made the turrets look even stranger than usual on the TV screen, more lopsided if that was possible. Scarier.
In contrast, the newscaster's voice took on a pleasant, authoritative tone as the b-footage played. "This locally famous house, known by residents as Gate House for its two security gates and large hill, is believed by many to be cursed. Built in the early 1900s..."
"Once I build up enough energy, I'll show you the night of the alleged alcohol poisoning," Jackson said. "I don't remember much, but I'll be able to walk you through it step by step. You can see for yourself if it was alcohol poisoning. It was also the night you were talking about, the one where Destiny and I met those dancers in the VIP lounge.”
“So, you did know those strippers.”
“I never said I didn’t. You can know them, too, in a channeling.”
I had no idea what that meant.
Unfortunately, he elaborated. "You have very strong mediumship. It's why you can see and talk to me while others can't. Another neat trick I'm sure you'll be able to master is channeling."
I pictured those people in seances who convulsed about, allowing spirits to take over their bodies. "Yeah, no thanks," I said. "I've seen a channeling before."
He leaned back into the velvet throw pillows on the settee. They actually depressed a little under his ghostly weight. "Those were parlor tricks, most of them, performed by charlatans. But channeling does involve you allowing me, or another spirit, to control your mind... and body for a while." He raised his eyebrows up at me when he said that last part, and I just about puked. There was no way that was happening, ever.
He continued. "When mastered, channeling is amazingly accurate, and I'm sure quite fun, like you're right there actually experiencing things just the way they were when they happened for that ghost. Moment by moment. Breath by breath. I can't remember things accurately, but I can take you to a specific memory when we combine our energy through channeling. And it will be one-hundred percent accurate in real time.”
"Sounds interesting. Still passing. No offense, but I can't allow you, or any other spirit for that matter, to have control over my mind and body for even an iota of a second."
He pointed toward the TV of a photo of the youngest stripper, Candace, being shown alongside the footage of police officers packing up the remains lifted from our yard. "She was Destiny's favorite at the strip club."
I coughed on my rum and coke. "She said she barely knew the girls.”
"Destiny quit dancing when we got married, but we still liked to frequent the clubs together, an arousing excursion to take with your spouse..."
"I'll take your word for it," I said.
"Anyway, Destiny seemed particularly interested in this girl right here. Candace. Invited her back to the champagne room with us a couple times. And like I said before, one of those nights was the night I was poisoned."
"You're doing that on purpose," I said.
"What?"
"Making me want to know more about that night so a channeling will sound like a good idea."
He shrugged. "I've never done a channeling before, obviously. I've only been dead a few months now, but I think I can build up enough energy for it."
I turned to him. He was a darkened figure sitting on the settee, his transparency fading into the crimson fabric the more we talked. "So how do you know how all of this ghost-stuff works, anyway? Are you handed some sort of handbook or something?"
"It's more like a knowledge..." he searched for the right word. "Lump."
I stared at him.
"Yes. Lump. Just like a lump of knowledge is made clear to you as soon as you realize you're dead, and you suddenly know everything is going to be okay. Nothing in life matters anymore."
"Then why are you so concerned with who killed you, if you were really murdered?"
"I was murdered," he said. "And death is not a one-size-fits-all process. Even though some of us logically know nothing matters anymore, it's a bit harder to disconnect from the living than you would think."
"It's hard to move on, just like Rosalie said." I sat back and crossed my arms. I had a million questions, and I still had that bundle of sage in case I decided Jackson needed to move on quicker than he was ready for. "You said you needed to build enough energy to do a channeling. Just out of curiosity, how long will it take you to do that?"
His eyes widened and a slow smile formed across his dark bearded mouth. "I thought you'd never ask."
Chapter 13
Chickens And Eggs
I invited Brock over for brunch the next morning, a daring move that Carly Mae would never have made, but I was just Carly now, a different person. And Just-Carly no longer lived in her mother's basement, listening to the woman lecture about the biology of shriveling eggs that would never be babies. Just-Carly knew life was life and it would happen the way it was meant to happen. Nothing mattered in the end anyway, apparently.
I spent all of Saturday morning cleaning the house and trying to memorize the house agreement. Rex followed my every move, jumping up on my skinny jeans excitedly whenever I put the dishes away correctly, making me wonder if he really did care about this silly agreement. He was a dog. How could he even know?
I was just making sure the Tupperware was organized by size, according to the diagram provided in the house agreement, when the phone rang. I threw down a plastic lid and answered it.
She didn't even let me say hello. "I saw the news. That was your house, wasn't it? I recognized it straight away, plus your horrible ex-husband was all but formally named the murderer."
My mother. I should’ve called her. I’d spent so much time avoiding thoughts of her I didn’t think to call her when it mattered.
Her voice was fast, almost southern sounding, a part of her childhood that spontaneously popped up when she was anxious. She continued, "I'm just glad you're alive. Who knew you were living with a murderer for eight years of your life? And to think, the only thing I used to worry about was why on earth you weren't having children. Now, I have to say, I'm glad you didn’t. We'd have little half-murderers running around right now. Don't get me wrong. That isn't to say, you shouldn't be worried about time. You don't want to wait too long to start thinking about children like I did."
Even when dead bodies are being lifted from my yard, the woman will still finds a way to take a swing at my aging fertility, in the same breath. "Yes, I'm fine," I said, even though she hadn't asked. I told her about the press and the police, about how they took my laptop.
There was a silence that spoke volumes. Why hadn't I called her sooner? I was terrible when it came to guilt-ridden phone calls. It wasn't just the ones to Tina.
"I wonder why they didn't interview you," she said after a minute. “I only ask because I told everyone you'd be on the news, but I never saw you."
I ignored her. "I'm sorry you bragged for nothing. I’ve actually been avoiding the press.”
Someone knocked on the kitchen door. I knew exactly
who it was even though I hadn't heard his truck.
"I gotta go, Mom. I've got a friend coming over for brunch."
"A friend? You have friends now? You make brunch? Is it a boy... friend?"
My mother always treated me like the pathetic girl in high school who spent every Friday night reading Agatha Christie with the family cat, not that that's a bad way to spend a Friday night, by the way.
"I'll call you later," I whined into the phone, clicking off before she could say something embarrassing that my friend might hear. I reminded myself I was Just-Carly now. I didn't need to be influenced by the past, or my mother who still wanted me to be Basement-Carly-Mae. I pulled open the back door.
Brock leaned casually against the door frame, almost posing, taking up most of it. He looked good in a pair of jeans and a gray t-shirt, his hair still moppy.
"It smells delicious," he said, looking around, teasing me because I told him I'd cook.
"It will." I motioned for him to have a seat at one of the kitchen stools along the back side of the island. "And you're just in time to help. I'm making my famous pancakes from a box." I held up the instant-pancake box already sitting on the island.
I didn't mention the part where I was just making pancakes so I could bring up how they were my favorite, and also how I liked Harry Potter, peonies, and babies. I rethought talking about that last part.
He was good in the kitchen as we mixed pancake mix together and threw the microwavable bacon I'd bought in to the microwave. His arms were massive, bulging, tree-like limbs barely contained in the thin fabric of his t-shirt. I could hardly concentrate on my pancakes. I definitely saw why my ex-husband was jealous. This man was drop-dead gorgeous and my ex was just drop-dead. I wondered what our kids would look like then smacked myself out of it. We hadn't even kissed yet.